The ICU, Spirituality & Quadriplegia

**Hey everyone!**

If you don't know me, my name is Matthew Raynor. I am a quadriplegic, an artist, a writer, and now a software engineer. But before all of those things, I am a Buddhist, an active member of the SGI community, and a firm believer in the Dao. I've transformed my life as a disabled person in a nursing home into something beautiful—one filled with friends, family, creativity, love, and compassion. Most importantly, I am building a strong foundation for a successful future—one rooted in self-love and helping others.

Recently, I spent quite a bit of time in the intensive care unit. It was not easy. The ICU has no windows, and I don’t do well without the sun. I also don’t do well when I can’t leave a room. They would put me in my wheelchair, but because I was hooked up to monitors, I couldn't venture out. And, let’s be honest, being stuck in a hospital gown with very little coverage isn’t exactly ideal.

As most of you know, I do a lot of meditation—chanting, visualization, thought auditing, intention setting. I refine and edit my intentions as needed. But at the core of my practice, every meditation begins with generating love, kindness, and compassion—for myself and for the people around me, even the difficult ones. From there, I focus on the ways the universe is helping me and how I can cultivate gratitude for them.

I believe love and growth are the fundamental forces of the universe. Creation is always happening. It’s easy to focus on destruction—things falling apart, the chaos and fear that come with it. But we often miss the quiet miracles: a dandelion pushing through concrete, a leaf unfurling, a rose budding. Creation is everywhere, infinitely more abundant than destruction. The universe is propping us up in ways we barely notice. Destruction, though, is a necessary part of the cycle. It clears the way for new growth—like a forest fire replenishing nutrient-depleted soil. Sometimes, when we forget something, it forces us to learn again, but in a contemporary context, allowing us to grow in new ways.

Starting my meditation with love, kindness, and compassion aligns me with this underlying nature of the universe. It helps me see destruction in my life not as an end, but as a necessary step toward progress. And more importantly, it fosters self-love—the most valuable thing I gain from my practice.

Everything is mental. Everything is perspective. Our thoughts dictate our actions, which in turn shape our reality. I keep my mind as clean as my diet—both are temples I take pride in. I used to hate myself. I drowned in drugs and alcohol, leaving me sick, broke, and depressed. Now, I nourish myself—physically and mentally—with care and discipline. Through meditation, I’ve learned self-control in ways I never thought possible.

But my mind isn’t just a temple—it’s a landscape. A vast world of fields, lakes, rivers, and mountains, infinitely expansive and accessible. Within that landscape is the seat of my mind, where I coexist with my subconscious. I imagine my subconscious as an actual person—a loving presence that cares for this mental world, keeping it lush and thriving. When my thoughts are healthy, the landscape is green, vibrant, and full of life. When I love myself, flowers bloom, and the sun shines. And when I am struggling, I envision this subconscious presence comforting and guiding me.

Looking back on my life, I often wish I could go back and tell my past self, “Hey man, it's going to be okay. Stop worrying about what you can’t control. It’s just your ego trying to grasp at certainty. The outcome will be something completely different from what you imagine, and that’s okay. Trust in the universe. Let things unfold in their own time. Be kind to yourself. Don't punish yourself for mistakes—just encourage yourself to do better.”

That thought—the idea of my future self reassuring me—has evolved. Now, I see it as my subconscious in the present, reminding me of these truths. The same presence that nurtures my mental landscape also supports me in my struggles.

In this landscape, I envision a Japanese-style pagoda—a beautiful sanctuary with bridges, koi ponds, bonsai trees, and flourishing gardens. It is peaceful and harmonious, a reflection of my inner world. But of course, parts of this landscape bear scars—damaged by habitual negative thinking. I believe that negativity carves deep grooves in the mind, directing thoughts back toward destructive patterns. To heal, I practice daily thought auditing. If I’ve spent years cultivating anxiety over something beyond my control, then it will take time and effort to rewire those thought patterns. Meditation is my tool.

Each day, I examine my thoughts: Where is my negativity coming from? Can I control this situation? If not, can I release it to the universe? Because if I could control everything, I’d have to control *everything*—the entire universe. And that’s not my job. I also ask: Is this negative self-talk productive? No, it’s not. Encouraging my own growth, understanding my harmful habits, and working to change them—that is productive.

There is a natural ebb and flow to life, just like the tides. Everything follows a frequency—highs and lows, destruction and creation. My time in the ICU was a low point, a time of destruction, pain, and suffering. But it was also paving the way for growth.

Let’s be real—I may not have needed the terrible complications that came with my gallbladder removal, but I *did* need that surgery. I hadn’t been able to eat fats for months. Most of the time, I didn’t even understand what was happening to my body—I was just suffering. Eating anything would make me sick for days. Doctors couldn’t pinpoint the issue, and it only got worse. Eventually, I resorted to a diet of bananas and fruit—things I didn’t think I could survive on, but I did.

It’s hard to maintain composure when you’re deprived of both sleep and nutrition. But that suffering pushed me to develop a meditation practice that has transformed my life.

I imagine that time in the ICU as me sitting firmly in my pagoda, watching a raging storm unfold. Torrential rain, trees snapping, roaring winds, cracks of thunder, dark skies. But I endure. And when I finally recover, when my body heals, the storm passes. The trees that fell had already rotted from within. The rain nourishes the earth. The aquifer is replenished. And now, with my body healed, I can eat a healthier diet—one that includes fats. A new beginning.

Storms may come, but they always pass. And when they do, the landscape of my mind is ready to bloom again.

I hope you enjoyed reading this, and I hope you can learn from my struggles somehow. I encourage everyone to treat themselves with kindness and compassion, to encourage themselves to do better instead of punishing themselves, and most importantly, to try a little meditation! It's a lifesaver.